Cross Differential (Alternate Universe)
by retwin
Summary: Disillusioned, broken and dependant. Three words that discribe what Project Outcome has made of Dr. Marta Shearing and Aaron Cross. Scared and questioning her life's work Marta sets in motion a series of events that threatens to either make or break Aaron Cross. An Alternate Version of events where they ACT not REACT against the program.
1. Chapter 1

**AN1:** I need plot-bunny repellant! I know I have so many pokers in the fire, but this one would not let me go. It was literally a rabid plot bunny that has been nibbling on my brain as if it were a delicacy. This is an alternate universe which I have no idea how it came to be. I am hoping it will be a really very short work, but it went from a one-shot to at least a two-shot.

**AN2: **Thank you to **NoirChick** for helping me out!

**ONE**

Swirling the wine in her glass Marta frowned into its depths as if the answers to all of her life's questions resided there. Sighing she lifted the glass to her lips and finished the last few swallows in one gulp. Leaning over she hooked the neck of the bottle on the floor grumbling when it, too, is empty.

Kicking her legs over the side of the bed Marta took a moment to steady herself before pushing to her feet. She wavered slightly before making her way out of the bedroom and down the winding stairs that once inspired romanticism but are just a creaking, decrepit reminder that she was a failure at living. This house was a monument to her one foray into life outside the lab and it was falling to pieces around her.

If there was one thing Dr. Marta Shearing thought she knew it was her job. It made her feel safe being in the lab, there she knew what to expect. Science was governed by set rules; even the variables predictable through mathematics. The lab offered stabilities that home did not but now it, too, has become a tomb, a whited sepulcher. Once, her shining church it is now a tumbling shrine to a god fallen from favor and she the disillusioned proselyte, lost and alone.

She did not bother turning on lights as she left the stairs and turned toward the kitchen. Tonight was a full moon and the house was lit haunting shades of blue and gray through the aged solarium windows that lined the back if the house.

Reaching the kitchen Marta came face-to-face with the shadowy silhouette of a man. Startled, she dropped both glass and bottle shattering them on the hardwood floor. Stumbling and crying out when shards cut into her bare feet as she back-pedaled out of the room. She fell heavily against the door jam

"Stop! Dr. Shearing," the voice, vaguely familiar, washed over her freezing her with the urgent command. "Stop, I'm not gonna hurt you." Marta barely has time to register that his voice is getting closer before she finds herself lifted off of her bleeding feet and set on the kitchen table as if she weighs nothing more than a bag of groceries.

She watches him as he steps away from her and pulls a plastic bowl from the dish drainer and runs warm soapy water into it placing it beside her while he steps into the pantry and returns with a small stack of white dish towels. This frightens her almost as much as finding him standing in her dark kitchen. "How did you know the towels were in there," she asks, jerking her foot from his right hand as he grasps her ankle.

"I saw them when I came in," he replied and this time his grasp on her ankle is firm and it tightens when she tenses her leg to pull away once more. "I need to see what kind of damage you've done."

"What do you mean," she frowned, "You came in through the pantry?"

"There are three doors in and out of the house," Outcome 5 informs her as he closes the makeshift curtain over the windows and turns on the light, a bare bulb hanging from a utility cord just over her head, momentarily blinding her and making her blink rapidly until her eyes adjust. Smirking he pulls a chair out from the table and turns it so that he can sit astride it and her feet can rest on the seat back. He was very gentle as he began cleaning the blood from her feet and looking for shards of glass. "That doesn't include the tunnel that lets out a quarter mile to the south, but you don't have to worry about someone finding the entrance the passageway collapsed in on its self just before it reaches the house."

"Tunnel," she questions. The realtor never said anything about a tunnel, but then she glances around at the money pit that has become her _home _and is able to admit that the lying bitch never mentioned a third of the long grocery list of problems this house possessed.

"Yeah, it runs under the house from the basement, just below the pantry, down the hill," he gestured to the bay window, "That way and, like I said, it lets out a quarter mile to the south."

"If the tunnel collapsed," she asked, hissing as he brushes against a sliver of glass in her foot. "How did you get in here?"

"I picked the padlock you used to secure the servant's door to the pantry," he murmured as he pulled one of the larger pieces of glass from her foot. "You really should have secured that from the inside instead of one flimsy lock out in the open like an invitation."

"I—Peter," she sighed looking in the direction of the pantry, "he said he would make sure it was secure. Of course he told me he would help pay for this monstrosity, too."

"Well," he said, "He did a piss poor job of it. I take it he didn't hold up to his end of that bargain."

"No," she sighed, "Just one more thing to add to a growing list of reasons I should just burn this hell-hole to the ground."

"Don't go doing anything rash, Doc." He murmured with a smile as he dipped a clean cloth in the cooling water, "Tell me if you feel like there are any glass splinters left in your foot."

She turned her eyes back to him as he frowned down at her feet while he worked. She felt her heart hammer in her chest as she realized for the first time since she stepped into her kitchen that Outcome 5 was actually here. Earlier that day, when he came in for his post-mission check-up he had pushed her questioning what it was they did and it had been like a sign that he was the participant she could confide in.

"You got my note," she murmured.

He froze, but then lifted his eyes to meet hers. "Yes," he nodded and then went back to cleaning and when necessary extracting glass from her foot.

"I—uh—I expected you sooner," she muttered, "through the front door."

After Outcome 5 was down for the count that morning Marta had slipped a small slip of paper with her address on it into his program kit. She had been so keyed up for the rest of the day that she had finally called it a day at two in the afternoon. Because she had nearly one hundred and thirty-eight vacation hours left to use Dr. Hilcott had given her tomorrow off as well; unless a program participant paid a visit she had a long weekend to relax.

"They have cameras trained on the front and back doors," the man informed her frowning when her foot jerked as he touched a sensitive spot. "Does that hurt," he asked.

"No," she shook her head feeling as if she might be sick to her stomach. They were watching her; had cameras on the front door? Did they see the embarrassingly messy break-up between her and Peter a few months back? Her next thought had her trembling with reaction. Did they know what she discovered? Were they waiting for her to dig herself in nice and deep before the moved in for the kill? Was Outcome 5 here because they sent him or because she had slipped her address in with his medications? She could not imagine he would be treating her cut feet if he planned to kill her. "I didn't know they were watching," she admits. "Did you get rid of the cameras?"

"They watch all of us," he informed her. "Us they can track, to a certain extent, with the capsule you put in my hip."

"What," her eyes widened. How could she have been so stupid? "We need to get it out."

"It is shielded," he assured her as he finished with her feet. "Why am I here?"

"I heard some things," She muttered as she watched him unzip a backpack and pulled out a small first aid kit that looked as if it had seen better days. His fingers were warm and gentle as he covered the cuts with antibiotic and then began wrapping them with gauze. "Things I wasn't supposed to hear about—about the program."

"Such as," he prodded without looking up.

"You asked if I know what it is that you do out there," she sighed, wishing she had gotten to that second bottle of wine. But she was smart enough to know she needed her mental faculties unimpaired if she wanted to deal with Outcome 5.

"And do you," he asked as he finished wrapping her right foot and moved to her left foot. She was quiet for a very long time as she simply watched his fingers work and contemplated telling him everything she had learned about their existence.

"You have to understand," she said after he finished with her last foot. Shifting so that she could put her feet down even though it made them throb. "I was in this program for science. I thought I was helping my country but I was mostly in it for the science. I didn't ask questions, I didn't look too deep, hell, and I don't even know the participant's names!" Agitated she tried to push off the table, but strong hands caught her hips and pushed her back onto the hard surface before her feet hit the ground.

"There is still glass on the floor," he warned before standing up and retrieving her broom and dust pan. For a while there was nothing but the scrape of glass along wood floors and the tinkling rain of it falling into the rubbish bin. She watched him work idly admiring his hands, quick and efficient. "Participants," He murmured as he was scooping up the second pile. "You don't know my name," he asked incredulously. "What did you call me; what did you put on my blood work?"

"Five," she answered, blinking as she saw him stiffen.

"Five," he muttered, "The number five…Do you know how many times we've met?"

Marta was surprised by his question; not so much the incredulity with which it was asked, but because she really didn't know how many times she had seen him since the program's inception.

"Thirteen," he continues as he tosses the broom back into the corner and drops the dust pan beside it. "Thirteen exams over the last four years and that's what I get; a number, the number five."

"I was in it for the science," Marta whispered ashamed to admit she never felt the need to know the participants as anything else. They had never really quite felt like human beings to her when she was in the lab. Dropping her head into her hands Marta can feel the weight of many questionable decisions weighing her down.

"So," he sighed heavily as he came back to the chair in front of her and sat staring at her. "How many are we?"

"Nine," she answered lifting her head to look him in the eye. "But now there are just six."

"The other three," he asked, watching her face intently.

"I thought they just decided to leave the program," she blushed when she had to admit that she didn't actually know.

"You don't just leave this program," he scoffed, "They spend millions on each one of us; do you really think we can just decide we want to drop-out and start a family? The only way out of this program is a body bag, Dr. Shearing."

His words made her entire body jerk. "No," she shook her head. She could not have been so naïve.

"There is no way you are that naïve," he snapped and there was a strange pity in his eyes when she met his gaze. "You just refused to see the things that made your job uncomfortable."

Closing her eyes against the accusation Marta tried to deny what he was telling her, but the conversation she heard between Dr. Hilcott and Dr. Hersch was damning evidence against her.

She had never been good with people even her sister had known she was socially inept; in the lab she did not have to remember the niceties. In her mind she was as inhuman as the participants had been to her.

"Do you really believe that, Doc," his deep voice startled her and she opened her eye.

"What," she asked confused.

"Did you really think we were not human; that you were not human?"

"I wish I could say no," Marta sighed. She must have had more wine than she thought if she was voicing her most terrible secrets aloud to total strangers. "It was easier to turn off everything but my brain in the lab. I'm not very good with people."

He considered her for a long moment, his eyes never wavering in their intensity, and then he nodded. "Okay, what scared you," he asked barely audible.

Swallowing, Marta closed her eyes and took a deep breath before saying, "About a month ago I got called into the lab at two in the morning because number 6 was having some on-going renal issues because of the strain of being viralled off the physical medication. I came out of the exam room and happened to interrupt Doctors Hilcott and Hersch." She rubbed her palms over the soft material of her flannel pajama pants as she spoke, "Hersch was saying that Bourne was going to put Outcome in jeopardy and that they needed to make sure they had life insurance in place to prevent NRAG from marking them expendable."

"Did they see you," he asked. He really wanted an explanation about the cause of Outcome 6's renal trouble.

"No," she shook her head, shivering. "I don't think so. They were in one of the mixing rooms off to the side. The lab is like a church voices carry."

"What else did you hear," he asked as he stood up and quickly lit one of the kerosene heaters.

"Dr. Hilcott scoffed at the idea that they would get rid of them and Hersch called him a fool. He said that NRAG would take out everyone that was directly linked to the program. That included the red-badge scientists and the assets."

"You have a red badge," he asked unnecessarily as he moved around her kitchen making two cups of tea. It was unsettling watching him navigate her home as if he lived here.

"Yes," she nodded, "I would prefer another bottle of wine, if you don't mind."

"Sorry, Doc, but you need to keep your head clear." He handed her a cup of tea exactly the way she liked it and sat down again. "You said number 6 had health issues," he prompted.

"How did you know the way I like my tea," she asked, her voice rising in fear.

"No," he told her firmly, "No, it is my turn to ask the questions. You have been bleeding, scoping and scraping me since the day we met. It is my turn now. Tell me what you mean when you say viralled-off physical medications."

"Exactly what I said," she sighed, "two months ago they viralled everyone off of physical medication." When he looked confused she explained, "They locked it in. They infected you with live virus and made all of the physical enhancements permanent."

"Infected," he muttered, glaring at her as he got to his feet needing to be as far away from her as possible. "When," he asked but it came to him immediately, "January," he stated, "The mystery flu. You infected me and I almost died."

"I didn't," she shook her head.

"You thought it was okay to infect me with a virus that could kill me," he asked anger in every line of his face and movement of his body. "Who tells you that is okay?"

"I don't make policy—I just—I don't decide what happens."

"No," he informed her coldly, watching as his next words hit there mark. "No, you just load the gun."

"It wasn't me," she shook her head. "I don't know what happens when you leave the lab none of us do."

"Do you think that excuses you," he asked. "Does not knowing we were out there being used to exterminate threats for our country clear your conscience?"

"I thought I was helping my country," she murmured brokenly. He watched as she pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around her head. She was crying now, but he could hear her angry mutterings about not being able to conference or publish and something about not having anyone to talk to about her work.

Moving to stand close to the table where she sat Aaron watched her fist her hair in her hands. They made it permanent he realized, but he felt a marked increase in his physicality after the 'flu' two months ago. He just assumed it was an increased dosage but what if the viral version was more potent than the pill had been.

"Why viral us off the greens and then neglect to alter out chems," he asked.

"Wha—what," she stammered.

"I am still being given greens in my program kit," he explained.

"I don't know," she frowned, shaking her head as she spoke, "They were supposed to discontinue the greens."

"They didn't," he denied demanding, "What was it a way to control us?"

"I—I don't know," she shook her head meeting his gaze steadfastly as she continued. "I thought they took you off the greens."

He watched her as she shivered there on the table looking as if she had been wrung out and maybe she had, but he couldn't help but think she was part of the problem with the program. He mentally checked himself as he found he was assigning her a load of blame for the things he had been asked to do for his country. It was only a week ago he was standing on foreign soil questioning everything he believed about his service to his country.

"Last week," he found himself saying because he needed to make it real to someone besides him. "Last week, during an assignment things—things went sideways and that prick Ric Byer knew it was shit." He collapsed in the chair in front of her as the true scope of what he had done settled over him. "He was there," he dropped his head into his hands and propped his elbows on the table beside her feet. "He was in Saudi Arabia not here; he had to have known before he gave me the assignment that the civilians would be present. That mother fucker," he laughed brokenly. "The intel wasn't screwed…I was screwed!"

"It was hell," he muttered, not looking at her as he tore the scab off the festering wound left after that assignment. His hand had healed but his soul was a seeping infection. "There were hostiles everywhere but there were innocents as well. A mother with her baby," he shook his head, "she was caught in the middle of our fire fight and they were both crying so loud, but I had orders—orders."

He felt a tentative hand in his hair and heard her whisper, "I'm sorry."

"I'm so fucked, Doc." He told her as he took her hand and clasped it between both of his. "They have my soul."

"No," she denied, "You can walk away. We can both just walk away."

"You're wrong," he shook his head sadly, "I am tied to them by a little blue pill and they know it."

"What are you doing," she asked breathlessly when he stood and picked her up carrying her out of the kitchen and up the stairs.

"You need to rest and you shouldn't walk on your feet right now," he explained. "Tell me which room."

She was silent as he walked up the stairs and when he got to the second floor she pointed him in the right direction. He laid her on the bed and stepped away quickly turning to leave. She felt desolate as she saw his haunted face.

"Did I do the right thing," she asked him and he stopped at the door to look back at her. "Was telling you the right thing?"

"Yeah, Doc," he nodded. "It was the right thing. I'll get you out of this."

"What about you," she asked.

"I'll never be free," he smiled sadly, "The own me."

"Because of the blues," she murmured.

"Yeah," he nodded, "As much as I hate what they stand for I need the chems."

"Why," she asked, "Why is it so important you stay enhanced?"

He considered her for a moment and she thought he was about to explain, but he simply smiled a sad little smile before saying, "That is a story for another day, Doc." He turned to go and she was startled to realize she still didn't know his name.

"Wait," she stopped him, "What is your name?"

"Cross, Aaron Cross," he told her and then he was gone.


	2. Chapter 2

Aaron felt slightly guilty snooping through her house, but if what she said was true the powers-that-be could decide at any moment to scrub the project and then anyone in the program would be like the expendable crewman on Star Trek, only there to be killed off.

He found her passport in a drawer in the massive desk in what was supposed to be the formal living room but was little more than cobbled together book shelves and the mammoth desk. He never expected Dr. Shearing to live in a place so disorganized and dilapidated.

Of course, from what she said last night she had thought on more than one occasion of burning the rickety wooden structure to the ground. There was building supplies in the basement and evidence of newly refurbished sections of wall, but whoever had started the work had not made it a priority. It was obvious this place held only bad memories and broken dreams for the doctor. The first thing they needed to do was organize the sale of this house; if Marta wasn't happy here then it would not be a stretch for her to sell and move to another less secluded area. He would have to bring it up when she awoke, but right now his priority was planning her exit strategy.

He set his laptop up on her massive desk and was busy creating another life, a new person, when a sound upstairs caught his attention. He might have thought it was an alarm if it wasn't just after three in the morning. Saving his work, Aaron went upstairs and found her sitting tiredly on the side of the bed with one hand buried in her tangled hair and the other cradling her cell phone to her ear.

"No," she sighs heavily shaking her head, "You didn't interrupt anything I was sleeping."

Aaron moved to lean against the door jam and startled her when he stepped on a creaking floor board. Her eyes, wide and frightened, relaxed when she saw him with his shoulder to the wood. He thought she might have breathed a sigh of relief before shaking herself and returning to her conversation.

"I'm sorry what," she asked, "I didn't hear you." Her body became perfectly still, putting Aaron on alert, and her mouth opened in a perfect 'O' before her eyes skittered away as she listened before coming back to him. "Manila," she brought her trembling hand to her lips and her eyes filled with tears. "Passport…Of course…Next week," her responses were tantalizing and he wished like hell she was using the speaker phone so he could hear both sides of the discussion. "It is a wonderful opportunity, Dr. Hilcott, thank you." She lowered the phone from her ear and muttered belatedly, "Bye," as she flipped her phone closed.

"Doc," he questioned when she just stared at him with her large tear filled eyes. "What?"

"That—that was Dr. Hilcott," she murmured unnecessarily and he could tell her mind was busy with other thoughts. "He was calling to tell me that he will be sending me to manila to oversee the next batch of chem production."

"Is this unusual," he asked, "Do you think this has anything to do with what you overheard at the lab?"

"What," she asked her eyes focusing on him for a moment before she was biting the corner of her thumb. "No, I—I think," she stood up and immediately cried out and sat back down. She forgot about her cut feet.

"Are you okay," he asked kneeling at her feet and inspecting the bandages.

"I'm fine," she muttered.

"You are not fine," he denied, "You are acting strange and I want to know why."

"They are sending me to Manila," she told him distracted, "I will be working with the live cultures…Live virus!"

"You said this isn't unusual," he pushed when she began muttering to herself.

"It isn't," she agreed as she looked at him for the first time since she heard Hilcott tell her she would be going to Manila. "Don't you understand," she asked.

"You are going to Manila," he nodded, "So that you can oversee the next batch of chems and—," it hit him like a bullet between the eyes. "Tell me you can viral off blues."

"I can viral off blues," she agreed and Aaron swept her up into his arms swinging her in a wide arch as he realized for the first time he might be able to slip the reigns. Marta laughed nervously clutching his shoulders.

"You can viral off blues," he breathed as he stopped spinning her about and eased her back onto the bed with a smile. "We have a lot to talk about if we are going to be ready."

"Is a week enough time," she asked as she pushed herself back onto the bed and pushed her hair behind her ears.

"It'll have to be," he nodded, "I made coffee," he added as he headed for the door, "you stay off your feet. I'll be right back."

He couldn't believe it; it seemed too good to be true and yet she seemed to genuinely want to help him. He nearly floated down the spiraling stairs as the idea of being free of chains and free of his natural born limitations buoyed him. He wasn't too proud to admit that he would rather take a bullet to the brain than return to his previous state and it wasn't a stretch to also admit that he would have remained a willing lapdog as long as they held the key to his freedom incased in a little blue pill. It disturbed him to realize that they planned to viral him off both pills but keep him tied to them like a junky, a performing monkey.

Reaching the kitchen he poured two cups of coffee adding milk and sugar to hers and a little sugar to his. She asked last night how he knew the way she took her tea and the long and short of it was that he had watched her. If he admitted this to her she would probably think he was a stalker, but truthfully he had only done it once a couple months ago when she had arrived in the exam room with red-rimmed eyes and splotchy cheeks as if she had been crying. After his full spec work up he had bid her his customary adios and left like normal, but he had doubled back to the laboratory and watched the place until she left for the night. He expected her to go straight home but instead she had made two stops; the first was at a local liquor shop where she bought a case of wine and the second was the mom and pop diner.

The waitress knew who she was and even what she would be ordering, but Dr. Shearing had seemed disconcerted with the familiarity the employees showed and it was obvious she had no clue about who any of them were. Even he had sat within two tables of her and she had not seemed to notice. Then he assumed she was just preoccupied, but after last night he realized that she was the only solid person in a world full of ghostly apparition drifting through it. She seemed unaware of the world outside her lab; so unaware that she did not even recognize him as a part of that world.

He learned a lot that night. He learned she drank her tea with milk and sugar and she had a surprising, for a doctor of any sort, artery-clogging fetish for cheeseburgers and French fries and she only drank alone. Knowing all of this it wasn't a shock to discover that her refrigerator was empty except for a half gallon jug of milk and a Styrofoam box containing half of a week-old cheeseburger and a few shrunken fries that looked on the verge of growing hair. The freezer was bare and the only things in the pantry to eat were boxed toaster pastries. Putting two into the toaster and plugging it into the orange cord running along the shelf over the sink.

Aaron frowned at this because whoever it was that was doing the restoration of her house was either a moron or did not mind risking the good doctor's life by placing a precariously dangling power cord over a sink made of porcelain coated cast iron. In fact, a few things seemed odd about the refurbished areas of the house. Waiting for the toaster to pop-up he went to the basement to take inventory finding a total of five fifteen gallon cans full of kerosene and yet he had only seen three heaters being used in the house. The only fire extinguisher was in the basement. Someone, Peter, the boyfriend Marta mentioned, was preparing to burn the place to the ground.

Going back upstairs he gathered the pastries onto a plate, got a napkin and their coffee taking it up to the second floor. She was still sitting where he left her but she was staring at a spot on the far wall while her fingers worried the corner of her sheet.

"Here you go, Doc." Aaron handed her the plate and then her cup of coffee watching as she sat the plate on her lap and took a sip from the cup.

"You," she sighed and met his eyes over the rim of her mug. "How do you know the way I drink my coffee?" The way she asks he believes she does not expect him to answer; so, he does the exact opposite.

"Two months ago I came in for a check-up," he murmured, "You had been crying."

"I remember," she nodded, her eyes watching him like a hawk.

"I wanted to make sure you were okay," he told her shaking his head. This sounded worse when he said it out loud; in his head it had seemed rational, but now it seemed like the actions of an obsessed predator. "I waited until you left the lab and followed you."

She frowned and her eyes pierced him as she studied his face, "You were in the diner," she nodded, "I thought I was imagining it; seeing you there because—," She shook her head. "Was that the only time?"

"Yes," he murmured almost inaudibly.

"That doesn't explain the coffee," she lifted the cup, her eyes judging him as he stood before her.

"It was a guess, Dr. Shearing," he finally sighed. Keeping his eyes on hers steadily he prayed she would not over react. "You take your tea with milk and sugar there is no way you drink your coffee black."

She dropped her eyes to the cup and after a moment brought it to her lips and took a sip. She avoided looking at him for the next few minutes before she set the plate of pastries and the coffee mug on the bedside table. "Do you know a lot about me," she asked as she brought her knees to her chest and let her eyes flick in his direction.

"Only things I observed," he admitted. From the look in her eyes she wanted the profile and he decided to use this to get a few answers about the way the house is set up. "You live for the lab and the work you do there; outside it you don't really register the people around you. The waitress obviously knew you, had served you before and often enough that she knew the way you drank your coffee and that you would order the same thing. You on the other hand seemed surprised that she knew you and though you hid it well you would not have known her name if it wasn't on her nametag."

Aaron gestured to the house around them, "This house is hauntingly romantic and broken down, disorganized and scattered. You may have purchased it but it isn't a house you would have chosen by yourself. I think that guy you mentioned last night was the driving force behind this beautiful wreck and I bet he is the one that was supposed to be doing the repairs."

"That's what he does," she admitted, "He restores old houses."

"I don't think so," Aaron told her, "If this is what he did he would have taken care of the foundation before he moved you in and the cosmetic fixes to the walls and stairs although making the place more presentable did nothing for the turn of the century wiring and fuses that barely keep lights going. I think they hired him."

"I don't understand," she shook her head, "What are you saying? Who are they?" Her voice was rising steadily as she pushed herself off the bed and despite the pain to her feet stalked up to him.

"There are seventy-five gallons of kerosene in the basement," he informed her baldly. "You have three heaters and I would hazard a guess that each only takes a little less than one gallon and as little as you seem to use them it seems like an excessive amount to have on hand."

"What," she asked and her face looked shell-shocked, "I don't understand."

"Did you buy the kerosene," he asked quietly, tipping her face so that he could see her glistening eyes. "You mentioned last night burning the place down was that your plan?"

"What, no! I never even filled the heaters. Peter—he –He bought them when the leaves started changing. The fireplaces don't work and the coal furnace that replaced the wood burning stoves is older than God." Her voice dropped a couple octaves and he realized she was probably repeating verbatim what this Peter told her. Her eyes were devastated and she was nearly whispering when she muttered, "He couldn't find the parts."

"How did you meet him," Aaron asked.

"On a plane," She looked confused for a moment, but then she shook her head. "I went to visit my sister in Montreal. We sat next to each other on the flight home." Her face blanched and she covered her mouth stepping away from him, gasping, "Oh, god! I think I'm gonna be sick."

She stumbled away from him out into the hallway and Aaron tried to help her but she jerked violently every time he touched her. She fell to her knees in front of the toilet, violently expelling the contents of her stomach. Her feet were bleeding through the bandages and her body was contorting painfully as she cried great heart wrenching sobs and was sick. Aaron gently knelt beside her and gathered her hair away from her face. She didn't flinch away when he soothingly rubbed her back. After she was finished Aaron pulled her back to his chest and closed the cover before flushing the toilet. She would have stood up but he picked her up and sat her on the closed lid.

Wetting a cloth he wiped her face cleaning away the tear tracks and gentle held the cloth to her noise and whispered, "Blow." She did but he wasn't sure if it was his gentleness or the mental anguish that caused her to double over with great racking sobs. He cleaned her face the best he could and offered her a glass of tepid water from the sink after she calmed enough that only hitching breathes remained as evidence that she had been crying.

Aaron did not lead the sort of life that most people did; when he was a child he took care of his mother instead of the other way around. She had been little more than a child when she got pregnant and now he could be honest and admit the only reason she probably kept him around as long as she had was for the welfare check. He could remember waiting up for her until nearly four in the morning watching inappropriate late night television until she stumbled in with the latest of a very long list of one-night stands. He must have been about four or maybe younger because she dumbed him at a state home when he was five. Until then he would make her breakfast do his best as only a child can do to clean her up after her hangover made her sick. He learned early that people only keep you around if you prove you are useful.

Marta was not his mother, but caring for one helped him care for the other. He cannot remember a time that his mother held him as he cried or rubbed his back as he was sick; that type of care just was not in the cards for him. Aaron tipped her face up until he could see her devastated eyes and he offered her a slight smile before scooping her into his arms and heading back into her bedroom.

"Not in there," she whispered brokenly, "I—please."

Aaron looked into the room and realized that she must have shared that room with Peter before he left. It was a testament to his lack of interpersonal skills that Aaron did not realize learning the man she had lived with might have been paid to get close to her would affect her. Sighing, Aaron nodded, "Okay." Turning he carried her downstairs to the raggedy sofa that was shoved against a wall and covered in dustcovers. He started to lower her onto it but she clutched his shirt and he found himself frowning as he instead sat with her in his lap.

"Why would he break things off if they wanted him here," she whispered after long moments of silence.

"I don't know," he sighed. Thinking about the man he played out meeting Marta on a plane and pretending to be a normal man meeting and wooing a beautiful and intelligent woman. He knew without a doubt that it would not have taken him long to believe his own lies. Hell, he was already knee deep into conflicted emotions and he wasn't even lying to her. "Maybe," he paused, tipping her face so that he could meet her shattered eyes. "Maybe he couldn't go through with it."

She scoffed looking away and Aaron realized that Dr. Marta Shearing the self-assured scientist that seemed to always be on her game at the lab lacked confidence in the real world. Turning her back to face him he reassured her. "It is possible to care for a woman like you, Doc. He might have started off with you as a job, but he left when things changed."

"Yeah, well, we were together for a little over three years. He bought the kerosene," she murmured, "and heaters about a week before he left."

Aaron sighed, "I'm sorry, Doc."

"I want out of here," she muttered through clinched teeth, "I hate this house!"

"Soon," Aaron promised.

"Tell me your plan," she murmured turning her face into his shirt. He could feel her tears soaking through the material as he decided how to break the harsh realities to her.

"This isn't just a small operation," he explained, "You can't just walk away without them coming to look for you; Bourne is a prime example." Looking around the room Aaron and dreading the words he would need to say next he shifted so that his legs were stretched out on the stiff fabric of the sofa and slouched down so that his head was resting on the arm of the couch. "You can't run; you don't have the resources or the skill. The only way to put this behind you so that you aren't waiting for the next person to show up and kill you is to—this is so damned hard to say," he muttered.

"Marta Shearing has to be dead," her voice was muffled by his shirt.

"Yes," Aaron sighed heavily as he confirmed her suspicions. "And Marta," he tightened his arms as he lowered the boom, "There are people that care about you that will have to think you're dead. You won't be able to call anyone; anyone you contact becomes a target."

"My sister," she murmured as her tears returned full force.

"I'm sorry," he soothed, dropping his chin to her temple and stroking her back with firm, comforting strokes. They fell asleep like that after her tears had run dry and they had shifted into more comfortable positions with her facing the back of the sofa and tucked back against his body.


End file.
